


Dances of the Old Capital, Part 3

by JustOnlyGinger



Category: Original Work
Genre: Cheating, Every Girl Crazy Bout A Sharp Dressed Man, F/M, First Time Blow Jobs, Guilty Pleasures, Hippies, M/M, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-19
Updated: 2015-06-19
Packaged: 2018-04-05 03:56:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4164822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustOnlyGinger/pseuds/JustOnlyGinger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A bored architect bangs the hippie kid next door; the beginning of the epic tale of Art and Jerry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dances of the Old Capital, Part 3

Art pays the cabbie and disembarks in front of his building, which is like all the other buildings on the street, a red-brick industrial relic with iron fire escapes climbing its sides and narrow windows like downcast, disapproving eyes. He lives on an upper floor with Kathy, and their collection of books and art prints and corduroy-covered furniture. When he turns the key in the lock and steps into the front room of the apartment, he hears Kathy's snores. They're dainty and endearing, and the familiarity of them soothes Art. He shaves and brushes his teeth before entering the bedroom where Kathy is asleep. He lies down next to her, and she doesn't stir.

Their reunion is easy, in spite of the things Art's been up to in his absence. Kyoto and Neil and Louie seem more and more like a dream. Art eats Sunday breakfast with his girlfriend, lazes on the couch with the paper, flips through the sketches in his books: tea houses, temples, colonial villas, shrines and huts and sea-hovels. Art is comfortable and reassured. Kathy won't find out what happened. Everything they've worked on for the past two years is intact. At quarter to five in the evening, Kathy leaves with apologies; she's promised a friend a birthday dinner. Alone, Art reads in his room. At five sharp, someone turns a key in a lock next door. There's a quiet murmur of conversation, a door clicking closed, and the sound of scales, played on a guitar. Art knows who the guitar belongs to, and every note sends a shiver up his spine.

The musician next door is seventeen-year-old Jerry Levy, a private-school kid and practicing hippie with a moderate pot habit, overgrown sideburns, and a fondness for the Beatles that extends to playing Revolver on stereo at odd hours of the night and wearing Lennonesque tinted sunglasses. Art suddenly realizes why Neil's face and voice were so familiar to him. He and Jerry are a great deal alike, of the same dark, serious school of Eastern European Jew. Art finds himself considering something that he should never consider. He shivers, his heart races, his prick aches. Seeking relief, he jerks off in the bathroom, while the neat, quiet chords of Jerry's guitar float through the walls.

Kathy comes home, and finds Art sitting in the dark. She calls his name, and Art turns to her as a damned soul to a madonna, and tries to believe that he hasn't changed. The guitar is still playing, but Art is able to forget everything but Kathy. Her long blonde hair is loose on her shoulders, her skin creamy pale in the flourescent kitchen light.

"Honey? Are you all right?" she says.

"Just a little tired."

Kathy makes low, sympathetic noises, and runs her long fingers through Art's hair. Art relaxes into her touch, and for one stabbing instant, as she kisses him, misses Neil: the taste of his mouth, the roughness of his cheeks, the persuasive touch of his short, thick-fingered hands. Kathy is so female. Her hands are light alien paws, plucking at the top buttons of Art's shirt. As if this will cleanse him, as if the act of sex with the woman he loves will negate the dirty deeds done with Neil and Louie, Art undoes the rest of his shirt buttons himself and takes it off.

It's quick and hungry, Art pushing hard, desperate for sensation. His body and Kathy's are too similar, both slender, long-limbed and smooth. Kathy's skin is soft, plucked and sanded hairless. Art realizes that he's reining himself in. Kathy isn't as resilient as Neil; he could hurt her. When she rolls off him, Art is relieved.

"Are you sure nothing's wrong?" Kathy asks, when she comes back from the bathroom.

"I wish he'd stop," Art says of Jerry next door, who hasn't paused in his plucking.

"I think it's nice. He's getting good, listen." Art listens, and hears the unmistakable strains of "Paperback Writer." Jerry's playing is proficient, but without urgency or spontaneity. His sound is very sedate.

"It's Sunday night, for Christ's sake."

"If he's bothering you, go talk to him."

Art hadn't considered that possibility. It makes him break out in a cold sweat. He thinks of Jerry, his tattered t-shirts and unruly facial hair and subtle but constant attending odors, and starts to catalogue the reasons why he shouldn't fuck him. First, and most obviously, he's just a kid, not even old enough for college. Seventeen. Practically an infant. Second, he lives with his mother, a worn, thin woman whose principal occupation, as far as Art can tell, is chain-smoking Cavaliers in a back bedroom and having what her son gravely speaks of as "episodes". Art has exchanged maybe three words with her in his three years of living across the hall; woe to he who disturbs Mrs. Levy's tenuous peace.

"Maybe I will tomorrow." Art curls around his pillow, his back to Kathy, and waits for sleep to come.

In spite of the inescapable, haunting presence of Jerry Levy and his infernal guitar, Art is able to return to something like normalcy as Sunday turns to Monday turns to Tuesday. His work doesn't suffer, but his sex life does. He feels heavy when he's with Kathy, and clumsy and brutish and thick. She notices his awkwardness, and a gap opens between them. Art blames his work, the weather, the cold he seems to be coming down with. It's Wednesday when he gets around to having the pictures from his trip developed. Wednesday is a bad day for Art. When he takes the pictures out of their drugstore envelope, he notices one exposure he didn't take. It's a bad shot, so dark he can hardly make out the subject matter. Only half of Neil's face has made it into the frame, and his features are blurry and indistinct. Art recognizes himself, naked, in the background, asleep on the bed in his hotel room. Art burns the picture in the sink, and afterwards feels inexplicably sad, as if he's destroyed some precious and treasured thing.

In the evening, Art steps out on the stoop of his building to have a cigarette. He's been quitting for weeks, and has found that only smoking outdoors makes it easier. He's entirely unprepared for the sight of Jerry Levy strolling down the sidewalk, shameless and conspicuous in the short pants that are his unfortunate school uniform, arm in arm with another boy. Art ducks back inside without being seen. Upstairs, he pours himself a cup of coffee to soothe his nerves. Kathy is at night school, where she's working for her nursing degree. Art usually doesn't mind being alone in the apartment, but tonight, the silence is tangible and suggestive, an unsatisfied animal. Art's on his second cup of coffee and wondering if any good movies are on TV when he hears a knock at the door. He opens it, and there's Jerry Levy.

Jerry's appearances in Art's apartment, over the years, have been regular. They're indicative of a certain mood of Jerry's, his most relaxed and companionable one. Every so often he can be counted on to knock on Art's door like this, wanting to share some wonder he's stumbled on in his solitary explorations of the universe. Art's played chess with him on several occasions, and had him to dinner a few times when his mother's "episodes" hospitalized her. Jerry is a bright and curious kid, no drag to be around, even with all the pot he smokes.

Art invites Jerry in. Jerry's wearing jeans and a beat-up Grateful Dead t-shirt. His feet are bare. He sits on Art's sofa and tucks his legs under him in a half-lotus position. Art drinks his coffee at the breakfast table, stuttering through the usual pleasantries: hello Jerry, how's school, how's your mother, can I get you something to drink?

"Tea, if you've got it," Jerry says. He slips off the couch and onto the floor, presumably having re-thought resting his bare feet on the cushions. Art moves around, running water into the kettle, hunting through the cupboards for tea bags. He knows he's blown it; he's too nervous. His hands are shaking visibly. He rattles china against the countertop and tries to avoid looking at Jerry, but without making Jerry think that's what he's doing. Sitting Indian-style on the floor, Jerry raps in his unhurried way, his ramblings going biological: something about the relative thinness of the human skull, the heaviness of the human brain. Art sets a cup and saucer in front of him, looking directly into Jerry's eyes as he does so. Art's read somewhere that brown eyes are far more expressive than eyes of any lighter color, capable of showing a wider range of emotions. This must be true; what he sees in Jerry's eyes is naked consciousness, the level gaze of life recognizing life, like looking into the eyes of a dog or horse. Art looks a little too long.

He sits down on the couch with his coffee, his legs close to Jerry's shoulders. He can see the stitching on the old t-shirt coming undone, the collar ripping away at the back of the neck, revealing brown skin. Jerry's darker than Neil, although Neil might have been the same healthy color before he and his brother went into hiding in the hotel. Art wonders if Jerry's back is freckled like Neil's. He wonders what would happen if he inched closer, touched Jerry with a knee or foot.

Jerry is wise to him. He looks up at Art, tilting his head back.

"You look scared."

"I..." Art dithers, self-consciously adjusting his posture. He remembers Jerry's friend, the one he was holding hands with so nonchalantly. "I saw something earlier that didn't make sense," Art says, before he can stop himself.

"You saw me..." Jerry trails off.

"I saw you with another boy. Walking down the street." Art could kick himself. Now it's laid open, his path to Jerry is clear. He sees it in the way Jerry pauses daintily and licks his lips before answering.

"I was walking home with one of my friends."

"You were holding his arm." Jerry says nothing, takes a contemplative sip of his tea.

"Do you like boys, Jerry?"

"Sure, I'm queer. That a problem? You want me to leave now?"

"No, no, no," Art says quickly.

"You are too, aren't you?" Art reels, as if struck. Jerry's offhand diagnosis is right, is him, is the truth he's been avoiding. He imagines going to bed tonight with Jerry instead of Kathy. He imagines a future with Jerry instead of Kathy: waking up, a middle-aged man, and reaching for Jerry, another middle-aged man. He wonders what Jerry will look like in twenty years. He has the sort of features that hold up well over time. The bones in his face are better than Neil's, he's more conventionally handsome.

Jerry drinks off the rest of his tea and, uncrossing his legs, scrambles to his feet. He's grinning from ear to ear, no sloppy pothead's grin, but the ecstatic expression of pure joy and relief.

"Hey, I've got to go now," he says. "But I'll see you tomorrow." Art thinks that Jerry has decided to fuck him. Maybe he's been planning to for years, waiting on the right moment. Art retreats to the kitchen, as if backing away from a cliff edge. He isn't going to do this. He'd rather never speak to Jerry again than do this to him. Wouldn't he?

Kathy comes home, startling Art from guilty dreams of Jerry and Neil and the body they have in common: solid shoulders, deep chest, short waist, fine-turned limbs. Does Jerry have Neil's thick pelt of dark hair covering his chest? Later, in bed, as Kathy presses her hairless breasts against him, Art remembers something that had completely slipped his mind until now. The reassuring familarity of the name Neil Taylor, the voice with its peculiar intonations, the slightly nasal accent...  
"  
Kathy," he says, "do you remember Neil Taylor?"

"From high school? The one you met at my ten-year reunion?" Art tries to remember meeting Neil, and comes up with irrelevant, junk-drawer details; the brown linoleum on the floor of the high school cafeteria, the strange funeral-parlor smell of formaldehyde and flowers, Neil's aquamarine blazer and ostentatious mustache. Hello and nice to meet you had been about all there was to it.

"He's in a lot of trouble now," Kathy says. "Him and his brother."

"Why?" Art manages to keep his tone conversational and curious, though his heartbeat is ratcheting, and he's started shaking again.

"They're being sued for their parents' inheritance. I guess they were disowned, and they took it all anyway." Kathy touches Art's shoulder. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Kathy."

"You're shivering. Are you sick?" Despite Art's protests that he's fine, just fine, Kathy gets another blanket out of the closet and lays it over him. She touches his forehead. "You don't feel warm."

Art wants to tell Kathy everything, to be absorbed and absolved by her love. He reaches for her hand in the dark bedroom, knowing even as he does that he's leaving her.

"Kathy, I love you."

Art spends the next week in a hell of restless waiting. Jerry's guitar is his constant companion, its thin yearning notes gathering and rising and rushing and falling away again. Sometimes Jerry sings, in a sweet but barely audible voice. The weather breaks on Wednesday night. Kathy's gone to class, and Art's sitting up in bed with a book and a glass of wine. He hears a knock on the door, like the summons of a spirit. Art throws a robe on over his pajamas and answers the door, half expecting Neil to be standing there.

It's Jerry Levy, looking like a little movie star in a khaki-colored suit, a silk tie knotted at his plump throat. His sideburns are still out of control, his hair a bit too long on his neck, but it's combed. His usual cocktail of plant smells seems to have been spiked with cinnamon.

"My mom's at my aunt's," he says. "Can you come over?"

The apartment where Jerry lives with his mother is dimly-lit, silky and feminine. The predominant color is red. Sitting on the plush red couch in the plush red living room, smelling an unfamiliar mix of dirty laundry, cigarette smoke, rose petals, and hashish, Art appreciates the thought Jerry's put into this seduction. This is a close, intimate space, its velvet surfaces and dim liquid light reminiscent of the interiors of the human body. It's like resting in a ventricle of someone's heart.

Jerry, posed decorously next to Art, plucks a neatly rolled joint out of a box on the coffee table. He lights it and takes several appreciative, lung-deep pulls before offering it to Art. Art takes a small nip, and hands it back. The taste, the warmth is familiar. Jerry edges closer to Art and places a hand on his knee. Art grasps Jerry's chin and kisses his petulant little mouth. He kisses him too hard, and too deep. Jerry gasps for breath and pulls back. The joint has burned down to his fingers; he shakes the ash onto the coffee table. Art pats his lap, as if coaxing a pet, and Jerry climbs onto him. He begins, with surprising avidity, to rub himself on Art's crotch. Art comes almost without warning, overwhelmed by the heat of Jerry's body. Embarrassed, he pushes Jerry away.

"Have you ever done that before?" Jerry asks him sympathetically.

"Yes." Jerry nods, and fingers the cuff of his suit coat.

"You like the suit?" he says.

"It's very nice."

"Tell you the truth, I'd rather be naked."

"Oh." Art rests a hand on Jerry's throat, at the knot of his tie.

"I wish there were someplace I could be naked all the time." Art is stroking the tie, moss-green with cream pinstripes.

"This is beautiful."

"It was my dad's." Jerry eases himself onto the floor and kneels between Art's knees. He touches the damp crotch of Art's pajama pants. "Do you mind-- is it all right if I look?" Art nods, and lets Jerry pull his pants down. "Wow," Jerry says. There is quite a mess in Art's trousers. It's one of his few sexual talents: producing, with every good ejaculation, almost double the typical amount of stuff. Jerry goes right for it, lapping and licking, his throat bobbing under Art's hands, which are still on the knot of the tie. Art is hard again before Jerry's even gotten around to sucking his cock. There's something very arousing about having a clean, handsome boy in a freshly-pressed suit kneel in front of him and lap up his semen like it's sugar icing. Jerry's lips, chin and cheeks are smeared with it, and he makes small, delighted noises as he cleans Art's thighs, nudging Art's prick with his nose. Art undoes the knot of Jerry's tie and removes it to the relative safety of the arm of the couch.

"I should have asked," Jerry gasps when he surfaces. "I'm sorry." Art, deprived of the licking and nuzzling, is uncharacteristically brusque.

"Suck my cock, Jerry." Jerry does, without further apology. His technique is perfect, his tongue clever and quick and warm; his hands, stroking Art's balls, as steady and graceful as a surgeon's. Art has seldom been blown with such skill, care, and attention to detail. Art pushes Jerry's dark hair behind his ears, wondering why he'd never thought of this before. Because it's ridiculous, of course, and immoral, and probably illegal, but in his pre-orgasmic state, Art doesn't especially care. Jerry lunges closer, and seems to try to swallow him. Art comes into Jerry's hot throat, with a gurgle of elation.

"You've done this before," Art says.

"Yeah." Jerry's still kneeling on the floor. His lips are wet with spit. A small dab of semen still adheres to the side of his face. Art beckons him closer, and Jerry sits on the couch. Art leans against him and kisses him lazily, pulling his hair.

"You don't like this?" Jerry says, sounding worried. "I can cut it, if it's too long." Art waves away Jerry's concerns and continues to kiss him, plunging a hand down the front of his shirt. To Art's satisfaction, there's a fine crop of curly hair there.

"Take this off," Art tells Jerry, and Jerry obediently shrugs off his suit coat and undoes the buttons of his shirt. When his hairy chest is revealed in its full glory, he stops and looks at Art as if waiting to be told what to do next.

"You want to be naked," Art says. "So go ahead and be naked." Jerry unbuttons the fly of his immaculately creased pants and flings them off. Art is somewhat relieved to note that he's wearing boxers. Jerry slips his thumbs under the waistband and works it down to the first hint of pubic hair, then pauses coyly.

"You want to see?" he says. He's acting worried again, and self-conscious. Art does want to see Jerry's cock, very much. He hopes it's small and nice-looking, like Neil's.

"Jerry, are you scared?" Art has to say, before he can, in good conscience, allow things to move forward. He could leave off here, he thinks, go back to his apartment and spend the rest of the night beating off to the memory of that superb blow job, and Jerry in his nice suit with spunk all over his face.

"What's to be scared of?" Jerry says, thrashing out of his underwear. His cock is a thing of beauty, about four inches, cleanly circumcised, with no visible sign of scarring. Jerry's dark, thick pubic hair covers him from navel to nuts and from hip to hip, attempting to colonize his thighs. Art allows himself to admire this impressive display of teenage virility for a while, but then he feels the need to be serious.

"Jerry, sit down." Jerry sits down on the couch, looking smug, as if assured of compliments. "I have some questions to ask you," Art says. Jerry leans toward him intently. "How many partners have you had?"

"I can't answer that question. If you want to ask, how many dicks have I sucked, I could maybe answer that."

"But how many times have you, you know, had anal intercourse?"

"Never have." This is unexpected.

"Do you want to?"

"I was kind of planning on it, yeah."

"You mean tonight, with me."

"Sure." Art takes a long breath, and lets it out through his teeth.

"So when you suck dicks, do you generally use protection?"

"I'm clean, if that's what you want to know."

"That doesn't really answer my question."

"Fine. Yes." Art deliberates with himself at length, and decides that he'll ask the question.

"How many dicks have you sucked, Jerry?"

"With yours, that makes..." Jerry counts on his fingers, lips pursed in thought. "Three hundred and twelve. Around there." Jerry misinterprets Art's shocked silence. "But I've only been doing it since I was sixteen." If Jerry isn't bluffing, Art has a schoolboy sex addict on his hands. Surprisingly, this doesn't dampen his enthusiasm for the evening's program. He decides he'd like to have Jerry sit on him the way Neil did, though that might prove too stressful a method for breaking new ground.

"You don't take money for it, do you?"

"That's funny. You think I'm a whore?" Jerry's tone is strange, sultry and accusatory at the same time. There's real injury in his eyes. "Oh, yeah. I'll suck you off for a buck. Buy me dinner and you can fuck me all night. I'm brand new, baby. Mint condition. Gotta be broken in."

"I'm sorry."

"You like hookers, Art?"

"I wasn't calling you a whore." Jerry is clean and healthy and well-fed and not addicted to anything that leaves needle tracks in his arms or a leering, living-dead look in his eyes, which makes him more or less the opposite of all the whores in Art's experience. Admittedly, there haven't been many of them.

"Maybe I'd like that."

"You'd like it?"

"Why don't you fuck me like you'd fuck a whore? Something worthless you can use and throw out." Jerry rubs his bare leg against Art's. "You don't care if you hurt me, as long as you get off." At this point, Art realizes that his and Jerry's sexual philosophies might not be exactly compatible.

"I don't want to hurt you."

"It's going to hurt. It's supposed to hurt."

"As little as possible."

"Where do you want to do it? You want to do it in my room?" That would be preferable to the couch, though Art imagines Jerry's room is intimidating, full of psychedelia and stern-eyed portraits of martyred religious leaders. Jerry kisses Art on the cheek, a surprisingly childish gesture, and shows him to the room, which is small and dark and spare, and houses a great number of books and only one religious leader: John Lennon, who glowers down his long nose at Art as he sits on Jerry's bed. The mattress rests on piers of books, and Art leans over to examine the titles. They're college texts, thick, hardcovered, uniformly bound in brown and gold.

"I take it you haven't read these," Art says, as Jerry poses casually in the door, one hand around his stiffening cock. Art is struck once again by how fine Jerry's hands are, how surgically precise their movements.

"Not all of them," Jerry says. "Not yet." He rubs himself distractedly, pressing his thumb along the ridge of rolled foreskin. "How do you want to do this? Should I blow you till you're hard?" Jerry drops to his knees before Art can answer, and Art is swallowed up again. There are Jerry's lips, his tongue, his egg-swallowing-snake Chinese-finger-trap throat muscles, and... This time it takes Art a bit longer to recover.

"I can make you come easy," Jerry observes. Art snuffles in agreement.

"Do you like me, or are you always this easy?"

"I like you."

"Wanna fuck my ass?" Jerry spreads himself on the bed, head resting on the pillows, back arched, legs bowed apart. Art is close enough to smell his skin, and he smells clean and dusty, like pot and cinnamon. Art knows what he has to do to Jerry's ass. He positions himself, sprawling on his belly. Jerry's open in front of him, clear as an illustration in a medical book. Art begins by kissing Jerry's inner thighs. Jerry holds quiveringly still, attuned to Art's movements. Art licks him between his legs, sucking briefly on Jerry's cock. Then he lifts Jerry's balls and pokes his tongue at the aperture. Jerry yelps when Art's tongue makes contact.

"Is that all right?" Art lifts his head and looks at Jerry.

"Can you get your whole tongue in there?"

"I don't know." Art licks and kisses, his hands on the backs of Jerry's thighs. The taste is inoffensive. It's a washed taste; Jerry must have scrubbed and scrubbed himself. Art tries, but can't get past the tightly closed muscles. He wonders if Jerry's experimented before, stuck something up there while jacking off. He, Art, had done it once, having heard from a friend at school that it was fun to do. In retrospect, Art's sure he could have come up with a much more serviceable object than the neck of a pop bottle. A tongue, had one been readily available, would have been ideal: soft and warm and wet, but strong, a muscle of many uses. Art scrapes his against Jerry's unresponsive ass, and wishes for Louie's expertise.

"You need to relax," he tells Jerry.

"Stick it in me."

"I can't." Jerry rolls over and props himself up on his elbows.

"Maybe I should bend over something."

"You don't have to." Art convinces Jerry to settle on his stomach, and goes to work again. This time he manipulates the boy's cock with one hand, and includes the sensitive skin between Jerry's balls and asshole in his attentions. He pricks the hole with the tip of his tongue, and the tip of his tongue goes in. Jerry moans and babbles as Art opens him:

"I'm a whore. I'm your slut. Fuck me. Oh god oh god oh god oh... fuck me, yes, fuck, oh... oooh." Art doesn't approve of Jerry's being his anything, much less his slut, but he's not in a position to object now. He plays with Jerry's prick and shoves his face deeper into a clean, healthy, youthful ass, a nice one that's never been had before. If Neil, after years of shtupping his brother, had felt so good...

Jerry cries out, and his body spasms as he comes. Rather than allowing himself the typical few minutes of reflection and recovery, Jerry springs upright and starts crawling all over Art, who's still wearing his pajama shirt. Jerry fumbles for Art's dick and starts pumping it, using for lubricant his own cooling semen.

"You wanna fuck me, don't you?" he's saying, his breath hot and hurried against Art's neck. "Rip my ass up. Make me moan like a whore." Jerry seems determined to be a whore. Art thinks of Neil's tongue-in-cheek imitation, his strangely alluring white man's impression of a Yoshiwara tart. Jerry wouldn't fit in a kimono. Even at seventeen, he's far grander than Neil. His weight, in Art's lap, is considerable.

"I want you to," Jerry says. "I really want you to fuck me hard." He has Art's dick in his hands, and is trying to throw himself onto it. There are a couple things wrong with this. First, the ersatz lube is drying quickly. Second, Art feels the need for a condom. He can live with being the sort of man who'd run around on his girlfriend with a teenage boy, as long as he's not the sort who'd do it without protection. Art takes a quick inventory of Jerry's room. There isn't much to it: the bed, the dresser, the heavy-looking antique desk, the books stacked against the walls and on top of the furniture. There's a small bottle of lotion on the corner of the dresser, within easy reach of the bed, but no rubbers.

"Stop, Jerry."

"Please please please please please..." Jerry's squirming in Art's lap, repeating one word like a prayer. Art's waist is cinched between Jerry's thighs. He feels swamped with sex, pinned by a tidal wave of hungry muscle. Jerry's body is trained, athletic.

"Get off me." Art shoves, and Jerry moves. They sit looking at each other, both panting and sweaty and hard. Art strips off his damp pajama shirt. Jerry regards him coolly, with half-closed eyes.

"I need a condom." Art holds up his hand in the universal gesture for "prophylactic rubber", thumb and forefinger a couple inches apart.

"Don't worry about it."

"You said you use protection."

"You just stuck your tongue in my ass." Jerry might have a point, but it'll take latex to assuage Art's conscience. After an urgent, mostly panted discussion, in which Jerry reveals that he's run out of rubbers, Art throws on his bathrobe and crosses the hall. He robs his and Kathy's private stash and returns to Jerry's room to find the boy in some sort of yogic trance. He's sitting on the bed with his legs crossed, still as a stone. His eyes are closed, and he doesn't look up when Art says his name.

"Jerry." Art touches his shoulder gently, so as not to startle him. Jerry stirs. Art sits down and offers him the two condoms.

"Both?" Jerry says, and, when Art nods, tears open the wrappers. "Show me your cock." Art obliges, and notices with chagrin that his cock looks especially small in Jerry's big hands. Jerry has nothing but praise for it as he lovingly dabs it with lotion and rolls on the rubbers.

"Thick," he says. "What's it, two inches?"

"About that."

"That'll feel really good. Stretch my ass." In Art's mind, those two concepts don't mesh well, but it's Jerry's ass. Jerry touches Art, his lotioned hands warm through the double layer of rubber.

"How do you like to do it?" Jerry says.

"What do you want to do?"

"I'll do anything." Jerry's bent earnestly over Art's cock, rubbing it as though he's trying to start a fire. Art hates to tell him to stop, but he doesn't have the stamina he once did. If he comes now, Jerry won't get fucked tonight.

"So how do you like it?" Jerry repeats. "You want me on my back? Like this, so you can see my cock and balls?" Jerry flops on his back with his knees in the air. The prospect is pleasant, but Art would rather not have to get behind Jerry and hump. He's fading into the blessed kind of sleepiness he always gets with really good head; Jerry's head is a candidate for the best Art's ever had.

"Get up," Art tells Jerry, and Jerry springs upright, his cock twitching in corresponding pleasure.

"I'll do anything you want." Jerry assumes an abject posture. He lowers his head until his pouting mouth is dangerously close to Art's crotch. Art covers himself against the heat of Jerry's breath and rolls onto his back. Jerry places his knees on either side of Art's body and lowers himself slowly. Art's cock bumps against Jerry's closed hole. Jerry presses closer, spreading himself with his hands. Slowly, slowly, lower and lower, and Jerry gets him in, his prick resting on Art's belly, his palms flat on the bed on either side of Art's shoulders. Poised, he sits and waits, as if working himself into the proper state of mindfulness.

"You have to move," Art says, after Jerry has been perched there for two or three minutes, doing his Zen Buddhist thing: eyes closed, hardly seeming to breathe. He's doing something diabolical with his muscles, something that translates into an insistent, gentle, rippling pressure on Art's embedded cock. Jerry's wrapped so closely around Art that Art has to wonder whether movement will be possible. Jerry remains immobile, deep in concentration, while Art raises himself to a sitting position, shifting Jerry's weight along with his own. This way, he can hold Jerry, and whisper encouragement in his ear.

"Move," Art prompts him. "Get up on your knees and fall back down."

"It's too tight."

"Does it hurt?"

"Yeah, it kind of hurts."

"Do you want to stop?" Jerry shakes his head. He brushes his lips against Art's, and Art opens his mouth and allows Jerry to kiss him. The boy's mouth is mature. Jerry's kisses are as sophisticated as his blow jobs. His ass still won't open, though. The muscles are tightly clamped around Art, and he has that feeling of being swallowed. Art reaches down and pets Jerry's prick, to relax him.

"Don't," Jerry says. "I'm not allowed to come until you come."

"What do you mean, you're not allowed?" Art is mystified by Jerry's mode of operation. There's apparently a set of complicated rules he must adhere to.

"You're supposed to get off first, because you're fucking me." At the rate they're going, neither of them is getting off. Jerry's contracting around Art, trying to push him out. He succeeds, rising up on his knees, and lets himself fall again.

"Is this helping?" Art says, stroking Jerry, admiring the solid weight, the healthy rigidity of his little boner.

"You like that?" Jerry says breathlessly, rising and falling again.

“It's very nice." Art tugs gently on Jerry's prick, to make it clear what he's talking about.

"It's so little. It's like a clit." Jerry pushes his face against Art's neck, beginning to move more confidently. "I might as well have a pussy." Art doesn't know what to say to that, so he says nothing, which is easy with Jerry moving like that. His ass is loosening. He slips up and down, faster and faster.

"You like that? Want to pretend you're fucking a pussy?"

"Jerry." Art's lost for words, but what he would try to communicate, were he more in possession of his mind, is that Jerry is perfect the way he is. He's a boy, he looks like a boy, smells like a boy, talks like a boy, and that's exactly what Art wants. He wants to fuck a boy, and rub his cock until he comes. Jerry is appreciative. He pants, and mutters breathless nonsense against Art's neck.

"Fuck... you like to fuck me, don't you? Fuck me. Fuck me like you own me." This strikes Art as out of character for Jerry, a distinctly un-hippieish thing to say, but then, maybe hippies in their private lives aren't so different from regular people. Art thinks of the implications of owning Jerry. There's the stuff of hysterical men's-magazine fantasies: a personal whore, a private slut, the leash and collar and whip. Art thinks that Jerry might have something more cosmic in mind. Jerry moans as if he's receiving a thrashing, rocking back and forth in Art's lap. Art has to let up, has to drop his hand from Jerry's cock. It's a relief to feel this way, after his awkward fumblings with Kathy over the past week, it's a relief to do this dirty rough-and-tumble thing. Art could be a boy himself; he's as awestruck as he was the first time with Neil. Jerry doesn't have Neil's practice or patience, but he has energy. He jumps and twists and kicks, applying all his considerable strength to the act of fucking. He's all in this, every cell of him, every muscle and tendon and bone and ligament; every rope of vein and drop of blood. His concentration is furious. Art gives way easily, clutching Jerry, kissing him, rejoicing in the strength and solidity of his youthful body. Art comes so hard that his vision goes dark. While he regains himself, Jerry keeps flailing against him, drenched in sweat from his exertions, but undiminished, still raw and raring. With a great deal of effort, Art hauls himself clear of Jerry and collapses on the bed. He breathes raggedly. His heart limps like a tired horse. Mercilessly, Jerry plucks the condoms from Art's dick and wraps his mouth around it.

"Stop."

"I want to go again."

"That isn't going to happen." Art pulls himself into a sitting position, waving off Jerry's advances. "I have to go home and go to bed."

"I'll go with you."  
"  
Jerry--"

"No, no. I know." Sitting on the bed with his legs sprawled apart, Jerry scratches his pubic hair absently. "You want to see me get myself off?"

"Don't worry about it." Art is anxious. He's lost all sense of time, and there's no clock or watch in Jerry's room. Art finds his bathrobe on the floor and puts it back on, cinching the sash around his waist.

"Watch." Jerry's on his back, pulling his cock. Art can't bring himself to walk out on this performance. He steps closer. Jerry grabs Art's hand and places it on his ass. "Feel there." Art pokes experimentally with his fingertips, finds Jerry stretched and warm and slick with lube. He slips his fingers in. Jerry babbles encouragement, and Art rubs, touching the sweet spot, as Jerry jerks himself off. When the boy is about to come, Art drops his head and takes Jerry in his mouth.

"Goodnight," Art says once he's swallowed. He moves toward the door, stooping to pick up his discarded pajama shirt. He looks at Jerry lying among his disordered bedclothes. Jerry Levy, so rarely ecstatic, so usually placid and even-keeled, is deconstructed. That's the word for it, how carelessly his limbs are draped, how open he is, lying on his back. He's been reduced to his basic elements, made by pleasure into an animal. Art closes the bedroom door quietly, knowing this won't be the last time.


End file.
